


Home to a Place I'd Never Been

by iamstarks



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Love, Marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamstarks/pseuds/iamstarks
Summary: Margaret and John are alone together for the first time since their engagement.  While one might dream of fireworks and passion, it seems unlikely that it would have been that simple for a couple who had seldom ever been alone in one another's company before their wedding.  Based on characters from the North and South miniseries starring Richard Armitage and Daniela Denby-Ashe, but references to the novel by Elizabeth Gaskell will almost certainly drift in as well.
Relationships: Margaret Hale & John Thornton, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might end up being a one-shot type of deal. I have not yet decided if I'd like to continue it beyond the two chapters that are currently written. I have often wondered what it would be like to end up married to someone with whom I had seldom ever been alone, along with all the societal rules of propriety and chastity, etc. While I think it likely that John and Margaret felt attraction for one another, I imagine that, especially for someone as young as Margaret, the prospect of intimacy would be rather intimidating. Let me know your thoughts, both on the subject and on the story! :-)

“But there is room now in my heart for more memories, carved by a letting go that I could find only by coming home to a place I'd never been.”  
\--Karen White--

The last of the wedding breakfast guests wandered to the door and made their goodbyes and wishes for health and happiness. Mr. and Mrs. John Thornton stood respectably next to one another—close, but not touching—on the front step and waved them off. Margaret’s newly acquired fortune allowed her to follow the novel fashion of wearing white for one’s wedding, and she looked stunning in her embroidered, slightly off-shoulder gown. Not usually one to concern herself with the vogue of upper class society, Margaret’s choice of gown reflected desires other than that of being a trend-setter. Firstly, she wanted to establish to the community that the Thorntons were not on financially rocky ground any longer, and that people could once again put their faith and trust in the longevity of business at Marlborough Mills. What better way to do this than to purchase a dress that could feasibly be worn on only one occasion? Secondly, she had heard the break in her husband’s voice the day they had decided to wed, and she knew that she had misjudged his feelings for far too long, causing him a great deal of pain. From now on, she only wanted to bring him joy. She wanted to look radiantly beautiful for him, to make all of his dreams come true, as much as it was in her power to do so.

Having worn the dress for the better part of the day, Margaret at last felt confident instead of self-conscious. At first, she had blushed profusely at the extravagance of the plunging and wide neckline, insisting that she would have to don a shawl to be appropriate for church. She had spent a good part of her time conversing with her well-wishers clasping her hands in front of her chest, pretending to be doing so out of an expression of emotion, but really in an attempt to cover some of herself. She was unaware that her movements only sufficed to draw one’s eye to her décolletage, and Margaret Thornton had many an admirer of her person on the occasion of her wedding. Her humility only added to her charm and beauty, lending a healthy bloom to her cheeks.

Mr. Thornton looked at Margaret, standing beside him, as she waved to her aunt and cousin’s carriage. He was several inches taller than she, and he had to angle his head to gaze at her, providing him with a rather pleasant view of her profile and figure. She looked so diminutive beside his towering frame, and he felt a wave of protectiveness wash over him as he remembered her collapsed on the stoop on the day of the riot. Her hair was elaborately pinned back, but several strands had come loose and floated about her face. He longed to grasp a lock between his fingers and tuck it behind her ear, affording him a better view of her face; to run his thumb over that scar and kiss it, a reminder of the day she had first offered a glimpse of affection for him, followed though it was by her stinging rejection of his proposal.

Aunt Shaw and Edith’s carriage passed the gates at last, and the newlyweds were alone together for the first time in weeks, Mrs. Hannah Thornton having retired to her daughter Fanny’s home for the remainder of the day and the next couple of nights. Mr. Thornton gave into his body’s longing at last, grasping Margaret’s hands and bringing her arms up around his neck in a posture he had craved since that fateful day, before sliding his hands down her sides and wrapping his own arms loosely about her waist. “Do you remember, Love?” he murmured in her ear, her arms responding with a prickle as the hairs there stood on end. His voice, that low rumble, resonated with her on a level she could not quite describe, like the subtle vibration of a struck tuning fork. 

“Yes,” she breathed, and laid her cheek against his chest. She could feel the thump of his heartbeat, and she pressed her lips to it, burying her face and feeling her own heart pick up pace to match his. John tried to lean back to see her face, and she burrowed it more deeply into his waistcoat, inhaling the scent of him—sandalwood and something citrusy, maybe bergamot? It was a heady scent, mingled with her lighter tones of lavender and vanilla.

Margaret felt suddenly and unaccountably nervous. It had been so long since she had been alone with John, and those times had been, for the most part, so brief, that it was largely unfamiliar territory. She knew that in a matter of hours she would be expected to perform certain “wifely duties”, but she was naïve as to what exactly those duties entailed. Her expectation was that it would be unpleasant, and this added to her trepidation.

John rubbed his hands slowly and gently up and down the length of Margaret’s back, resting his chin atop her head. He could feel the tension in her back and her clinging tightly to him, her small hands clasped together behind his neck. He kissed the top of her head and said gently, “Shall we go in now, Love?” Margaret nodded against his chest, and then turned towards the door, head still somewhat bowed. 

“Do you think we should have some tea?” Margaret asked brightly once they were inside. “I find I’m in the mood to rest a bit and take refreshment.”

John smiled down at her and gave her side a squeeze, nodding in agreement. Their wedding breakfast had been a relatively modest affair, owing to the small size of Margaret’s remaining family and John and Margaret’s desire for a more intimate gathering, but speaking with and hosting guests for a number of hours following a life-changing event tended to wear one out. Margaret was extremely grateful that they could not depart for their honeymoon that same night, as was tradition. John would be needed at the mill the next couple of days, and they were to depart instead at the weekend, once a major order they were working on had been completed. Higgins and Williams would manage in their absence after that.

Margaret performed her first duty as the new mistress of Marlborough House and ordered tea brought to the drawing room. Mr. Thornton sat casually upon the sofa, untying his cravat and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt in a leisurely way that rather distracted Margaret as she went to pour the tea. Her hands trembled slightly, and she spilled a bit on the tray. She brought the saucer to John, eyes downcast. As he reached to take the cup from her, he extended his finger to run it alongside hers, watching her face intently. She looked up quickly to find him smiling at her, a broad, playful smile that reached all the way to his deep blue eyes and creased his forehead. Her mind flitted immediately to the last time he had done such a thing, in her parents’ drawing room, and it shocked her to think that it may have been intentional then as well. She decided she would one day have to ask him, but at this particular moment, speech escaped her.

He cocked his head to the side to consider her expression, noting the fresh bloom of pink on her cheeks. “Come and sit by me,” he said gently, patting the sofa at his side.

Flustered, Margaret turned to retrieve her own cup before making her way back to John’s side and primly taking a seat just to the right of where he had indicated, keeping a slight distance between them. She was finding it difficult to know how to behave. She was distracted by his open shirt collar—her eyes kept flitting to his exposed neck and then to a spot just over his right shoulder and back again—his arm was draped along the back of the sofa behind her, and he leaned back against the cushions, unable to tear his gaze from his literally blushing bride. They sipped their tea in companionable silence for several minutes.

“Mr. Thornton,” she erupted, stopping as soon as she saw the look of chastisement on his face. “John,” she smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m very poor company this afternoon. I find myself quite at a loss for what to say. It’s rather difficult, is it not, to have been always in the company of others and have so very little practice being on our own together?” She took a long, slow sip of her tea, drawing it out well beyond when she needed a breath, and awaited his reply. He appeared to be experiencing no difficulty at all, seeming perfectly at ease with a laid-back posture and a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. Margaret cursed his poise inwardly, along with her own stilted presence. She let out an exasperated breath.

John leaned forward and gently grasped Margaret’s free hand in his own warm, slightly weathered one. “My dear, it’s only me. There is no difficulty here. You are in your own home, and you may behave exactly as you choose. There are no rules of propriety in this household, and no expectations. Please be at ease, my love.”

Margaret’s throat convulsed with repeated swallowing as she tried to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. That voice unstrung her, somehow, and she felt her pulse quicken once more. She squeezed his hand as the only reply she was physically able to give in that moment, and clung to her now neglected teacup with the other hand. John removed the forgotten article and unceremoniously deposited it on the floor next to the sofa, reaching back to clasp both of Margaret’s hands and bringing them to his lips to gently kiss. She watched him, eyes wide, and she nearly gasped when John’s lips remained at the joint of her ring finger as he raised his eyes to look at her. He was so close she could see flecks of navy within his bright blue eyes, and in this posture, with his cravat hanging rakishly from his collar; he looked so young, so playful, and so dear that she was moved to close the gap between them. She bent forward slowly until their foreheads were touching, and she closed her eyes, becoming accustomed to this new intimacy. John’s thumbs gently stroked her fingers as he slowly raised his chin to place a chaste kiss on Margaret’s lips. 

They had kissed before of course, but this sensation was new. It was like a first kiss all over again—sweet, yet smoldering, gentle, but insistent, innocent, but with something else unspoken breathing through it. Margaret shivered as his tongue ran along her lower lip, and he pulled back softly, but immediately, his eyes probing her face. Margaret let out a sigh and smiled tremulously. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, and John’s eyes darted there, and then he leaned in immediately to kiss her once more, gently sucking her lower lip between his own.

Margaret trembled beneath John’s hands, and he once again pulled back from her, searching her face for instruction. She looked so innocent, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. To ease her apparent anxiety, John relaxed back against the sofa, keeping hold of her hand in his and gently running his thumb back and forth over it, spinning the simple gold ring she now wore. He smiled at her kindly, and she returned a grateful grin, relaxing against the back of the sofa at last, since her spine was no longer capable of supporting her. The tea things lay forgotten, and Margaret and John just looked at each other—Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were learning to share a space in peace and be comfortable with one another in their own skins.

This was a momentous night for both of them. Margaret and John had exchanged a kiss with one another prior to their marriage, on the occasion of their betrothal, but beyond that neither had any experiences with intimacy. John, being a man, had of course been coarsely coached by the men of his acquaintance, but what they had told him didn’t resonate with his own feelings about Margaret or his beliefs about love. It seemed the men of his acquaintance viewed their women as creatures designed only for their own pleasure, and John felt uncomfortable with the idea of using another human being so shamelessly. It didn’t feel very loving to him, and he loved Margaret deeply. He was determined to be considerate of her needs and desires, unlike his colleagues.

Margaret’s education, or lack thereof, had suffered the loss of her mother the year prior, and thus her only tutelage had come from her cousin Edith, who had told her to “go along with it and it will be over soon enough—and then you might get a baby out of it, like my darling Sholto!” Margaret felt as though several important details had been omitted from this instruction, but she had not been brought up in a household where such topics were freely discussed, so she had not felt comfortable asking Edith to elaborate. Edith’s phrasing, however, did not lend her any confidence that her “wifely duties” would be pleasant, so Margaret’s insides churned with anxiety and trepidation. She was most grateful for this respite on the sofa and a chance to breathe and calm her nerves. It struck her as odd how society was determined to keep couples apart for the purpose of remaining proper and chaste, and then they were expected to suddenly meld together after exchanging vows; so little time was permitted for a couple to really get comfortable being in one another’s company without chaperones. 

After many minutes of them sitting in companionable silence, adopting more and more relaxed postures upon the sofa and leaning into one another as they chatted quietly, a loud gurgle arose from John’s stomach, and they burst into laughter, any remaining tension between them evaporating immediately. They embraced, and then Margaret rose to order the evening meal, giving John a light peck on the cheek. Mrs. Hannah Thornton had taken it upon herself to select a menu for them, so Margaret’s only task was to instruct the staff to begin preparations. In the meantime, she plucked a biscuit from the tea tray as she walked past and playfully held it to her husband’s lips. His eyes bored into hers as he gently took it between his teeth, and Margaret felt her insides flip and twist. She inhaled sharply and walked to the kitchen on shaky legs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't decide if there should be more, or if it's better left as a one-shot....thoughts? Sometimes "more is just more", in the words of Sabrina....and my art teacher always said, "less is more." What say you, Fandom?

Following their evening meal, the Thorntons once again retired to the drawing room and their positions on the chaise. John leaned back against the corner and Margaret leaned back against his chest, his arm draped over her shoulder and around her. Both were feeling much more at ease, and they steadily relaxed into one another. Because they were not face-to-face, it seemed easier to converse, and they spent the next several hours reminiscing over their childhoods and journeys into adulthood: minor injuries, injustices, sibling spats, backyard adventures, and milestone achievements. As they spoke, they experienced that phenomenon common amongst couples who share true affection: they regretted not having been present for the rest of the other’s life up until that point, wanting to know the other person completely, and they vowed to spend the rest of their lives appreciating the moments they would now share.

After the fire had burned low in the grate, and the room had begun to descend into darkness, they lapsed into a comfortable silence, and John’s steady pattern of tracing his hand up and down Margaret’s arm had lulled her almost to sleep. He rested his chin atop her head and breathed in the scent of her: warm vanilla and a hint of lavender, plus something uniquely Margaret. He smiled into her hair and changed his attentions to a solitary finger tracing the inside of her palm, wrist, and forearm in an unceasing pattern of swirls and dips. Margaret’s eyes flew open as the sensation changed, and her heart fluttered. Something had altered in the atmosphere of the room, but she couldn’t describe it; she only knew that she was standing on the precipice somehow, and she began to tremble in anticipation of the freefall she was about to enter.

John tipped his head to Margaret’s ear and nuzzled it gently with his nose before whispering, “Shall we retire, Love?” Margaret’s breath caught in her throat, and she was unable to formulate an audible reply. She nodded mutely, at once a curious combination of apprehension and excitement. She leaned forward, and John rose from behind her on the sofa, extending a hand to help her up. She rose somewhat unsteadily, and he folded her into his embrace, gently petting her back until she backed away and led the way to the staircase. John trailed behind, clasping her hand tightly, unable to tear his gaze from her countenance. 

Margaret hesitated when she reached the upstairs hallway. She had never entered this part of the house before. John gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and flashed a small smile before gently leading her to the second door on the right and ushering her through it. The bedchamber was masculine in its décor, but cozy and warm. A fire crackled merrily in the grate along with two lamps lit on the bedside tables; the deep blues of the bedding, rugs, and easy chairs felt at once soothing and luxurious. Books were stacked upon the table between the two chairs, as well as on one of the bedside tables and the small desk against the far wall. Margaret walked slowly around the room, trailing a hand over the backs of the chairs and along the edge of the desk. John leaned against the door watching her shyly, anxious for her approval. He had done little to alter his room for her arrival other than ensuring she would have her own bedside table and space for her personal items. He had also replaced the linens on the bed with a fine, tightly woven cotton from Marlborough Mills. His mother had embroidered their initials on the linens in navy, along with a small yellow flower, at John’s request, as part of her wedding gift to the young couple.

Margaret ended her tour of the modestly appointed room by leaning back to half sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of what she was expected to do next, but knowing it must involve this article of furniture. John was across the room in two strides to sit beside her, placing his hand warmly over hers on the coverlet. They smiled nervously at one another, and John studied her hair, noting the many pins holding it in place. With an almost childlike expression of wonder on his face, he lifted his hand to her hair and touched it experimentally before selecting one of the pins and easing it out of place as slowly and gently as one might handle live explosives. A single lock of hair tumbled down to rest against Margaret’s temple and chin, and John pulled it gently through his fingers before turning to the next pin. Slowly…ever so slowly, he extricated the pins one at a time, collecting them in his palm. He was so intent on his task that he was unaware of Margaret’s breath picking up pace, her chest heaving with the effort. Her hands clutched at the coverlet, holding on for dear life, and she bit her lip, trembling slightly.

The final pin slipped from its place, and Margaret’s hair tumbled down past her shoulders, several locks curling over the expanse of her chest and the rest cascading down her back. It was the first time Margaret had worn her hair down in front of anyone other than her family or Dixon since she was a child. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breath, and her knuckles were white from their grip upon the bed. John reached up a hand and lightly ran it from the crown of her head down her hair to the small of her back, pressing it against her gently, feeling the curve of her spine. It was not an action intended to soothe or comfort, nor was it an overture of passion. It was an impulse without conscious thought—he simply needed to feel it beneath his fingers. John rose from the bed, then, and Margaret felt the drop in temperature at the small of her back and shivered. He strode across the room to the desk and slid a small box toward him, into which he poured the pins from his hand. Removing his coat at last, he hung it over the back of his desk chair and slid his loose cravat from around his neck to lay it tidily on top. Then he returned to Margaret’s side. 

“Would you like me to call Jane to assist you with your gown, or shall I help you?” he asked with more confidence than he felt. The row of buttons flowing down her back was intimidating, and he imagined his fumbling efforts frustrating her. At the same time, he could not fathom leaving the room at this moment and being separated from Margaret when they had finally achieved some level of comfort with one another.

“Could…could you help me, do you think?” she practically whispered.

John’s mouth was suddenly arid. Margaret turned slightly away to present her back to him. He once again trailed his hand down the rich curls of her hair before gathering it together in his hands to drape forward over one of her shoulders. He traced a finger along the top edge of the back of her gown, and Margaret’s head dropped forward onto her chest, her heart at a gallop. With the dexterity acquired from years working at the draper’s shop, John bent to his task. The buttons slipped through their loops far easier than he expected, and he found himself intentionally slowing down to prolong the moment both for his own enjoyment and for Margaret’s benefit, to ease her transition before him. Once her bodice had loosened, it began to pull away from the front of her body, and Margaret reached up to press it back against herself. John reached into the opening at her back and lightly loosened the ties of her corset. He placed both hands upon her shoulders, and leaned forward to kiss the knob at the base of her neck.

“I’ll give you a few moments. I’m going to go wash up and change,” he said lightly, handing her a dressing gown, which she clutched gratefully to her chest.

Margaret finished undressing quickly and donned the dressing gown, feeling extremely self-conscious. She sat on one of the armchairs, gazing intently at the fire and hugging her arms to herself while she waited for John to finish in the adjoining room. He entered at last and gestured to the doorway, “Your turn,” he said, smiling. 

When Margaret reentered the bedroom sometime later, refreshed and somewhat calmer, John was sitting in the other chair, one leg casually crossed on the other knee. He was reading, his face relaxed and an arm draped over the side of the armchair. Margaret leaned against the doorjamb to gaze upon her husband. She smiled to herself, thinking of how this was her new life, getting to see the John Thornton that existed behind closed doors. He was handsome, and when his face was relaxed like this, he looked so much younger, with kindness and warmth radiating from him. She had once thought him imposing and cruel-looking, but it was impossible to find those features on _this_ face. He looked up at her then, holding his place with an elegant finger, and he beamed at finding her watching him.

He set the book upon the round table between the chairs and beckoned to her. She came slowly, shyly, completely unaware of how alluring this made her appear. John’s eyes darkened as she approached, and he reached for her hand, pulling her the last step towards him and tugging gently until she was seated on his lap. He reached a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, ghosted his hand along her cheek, down her neck, slipping at last into the opening of the robe to drift across her shoulder. She collapsed towards him and fell into a kiss far more insistent and intense than before, the air charged around them.

Neither was in a rush to reach the next milestone of their relationship, both eager to learn the little nuances of their partner and savoring these moments of intimacy and affection. Margaret learned that her fears were unwarranted; John was a considerate, gentle, patient, and generous lover. She felt sorry for her cousin, who viewed these activities as duties—something to be endured. Perhaps it would not always be just like this, but Margaret felt confident that she could trust her husband; he had put her comfort first in every possible way this evening, and any lingering concerns she had about what their life together would be like steadily melted with his attentions to her. She melted as well, turning liquid in his arms as they slid between the crisply pressed sheets, all feelings of unease banished in a haze of sensation. Mr. Hale had always said that John was an excellent student, and indeed, he studied Margaret faithfully, reading her reactions and adjusting his behaviors until they collapsed against one another, limbs tangled as though they had never before been separated.

Margaret fell asleep with John nestled behind her on the bed, one of his arms draped over her side and clasping her hand before her breast, the other under his own head and pillow. He would lose feeling in that arm quickly, he knew, but he couldn’t bear to move for fear of breaking the beauty of the moment. John lay awake for a long time, determined to commit it all to memory—the feel of her curve against him, the soft feathers of her hair tickling his neck, the gentle rise and fall of her breath whispering against his chest, and the softness of her against his own rough, workman’s body. He smiled into the darkness before succumbing to it at last.


End file.
